Page 100 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"Physics is physics. Apex theory doesn't change between pixels and pavement. Weight transfer, momentum management, threshold braking—it all applies." She leans against the McLaren, and something about her casual confidence in leather and silk breaks my control entirely.
I pin her against six hundred thousand dollars of Italian engineering, hands braced on either side of her shoulders. We're close enough that I can count individual silver strands, see the flutter of pulse at her throat.
"What? Turned on by my spee?—"
I kiss her before she can finish, swallowing her surprise with hunger that's been building since breakfast. She tastes like adrenaline and lemonade, her mouth opening immediately under mine. My tongue finds hers, and the sound she makes—half gasp, half moan—shoots straight to my core.
Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer while I press her harder against the car.
The kiss turns filthy fast—teeth and tongues and the kind of desperate want that would scandalize anyone watching. She bites my bottom lip, and I growl into her mouth, Alpha instinctsroaring at this omega who drives like she's invincible and kisses like she's trying to steal souls.
There was nothing sweet or measured about the way Velvet responded. She bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, teeth scraping over delicate skin in that perfect knife's-edge between pain and want. My Alpha instincts surged, the predator in me rising to the challenge; if she wanted a fight, she'd get one. But then she slipped her tongue into my mouth with a soft, hungry whimper that dissolved whatever plans I had to assert dominance. We were equals, sparring on a battlefield built from need and unspoken dare.
I pressed her back against the McLaren, pinning her to the curve of carbon fiber, hands caging either side of her face. Through the thin dress shirt, I could feel her heartbeat—erratic, feverish, a staccato rivaling the engine we'd just tortured around the circuit. She raked her nails down my forearms, dragging me impossibly closer, gasping into the kiss like we'd run two marathons instead of two laps.
"You're out of control," she whispered, breaking free just long enough to pant the accusation against my jaw.
"Only because you make me," I countered, barely coherent as I nipped her earlobe. Her scent was different up close—intoxicating, dark, and layered with the chemical tang of adrenaline and the phantom heat of smoldering tires. I wanted to drown in it, to memorize every note until it haunted my sleep.
She twisted in my grip, flipping the dynamic so that I was the one pressed between her body and the car. Her hands mapped over my chest, nails testing the tensile strength of my shirt until she found my sidearm, holstered beneath my jacket. She didn't flinch, just curled her fingers around the grip and leaned in, lips brushing over mine in a slow, deliberate pass designed to torment.
"Is this loaded?" she murmured, eyes alight with the same thrill she'd shown barreling through hairpin turns at 120 mph.
"Always," I replied, and this time her grin went wolfish—dangerous, dazzling, a challenge and a promise all at once.
She kissed me again, slower now, savoring the taste of my surrender. Her hips rolled against mine, and I stifled a groan. My hands found the curve of her waist, dragging her flush against me until our entire bodies hummed with anticipation. She didn't shy away from the friction, didn't defer or deferentially yield—she pressed back, meeting force with force, until we might as well have been fighting for air.
Somewhere nearby, a breeze rattled the aluminum doors of the service garage, but it was nothing compared to the storm in my chest. I felt unmoored, unanchored—like everything in my life prior to this was just scaffolding for the moment Velvet Morclair finally let herself be held by someone who wouldn't break her.
I slid my hand up her back, fingers tangling in the silver spill of her hair. The texture was impossibly soft, daring me to pull just a little. She let me, eyes fluttering closed as I took gentle control, tilting her head for a better angle. Our tongues tangled, the kiss deepening, until I couldn't tell where my hunger ended and hers began.
She tasted like lemonade and pistachio ice cream, a little sweet and a little bitter, but mostly like conquest. I devoured her, and she devoured me right back, no quarter given.
Her hands found my collar, yanking me closer until the plastic buttons strained. She traced the line of my throat with her tongue, then grazed my jugular with the edge of her canine—a warning that she could draw blood if she wanted to. The challenge in her eyes dared me to make the first move, but I was too enchanted to care.
I let my guard down, let my Omega have her fun.
She must've registered my surrender, because her lips softened, mouth gentling as she peppered my jaw with kisses. I blinked, trying to recover some semblance of composure, but she grinned at the sight—my pupils blown wide, breath hammering, cock hard and straining behind Savile Row wool.
"You look like you've been shot," she mused, tone teasing but reverent, like she was cataloguing evidence for a case only she understood.
"I think you just killed me," I managed, my voice embarrassingly raw.
She laughed, the sound unfiltered and real, and in that moment I would have promised her anything. The wind shifted again, and I caught a subtle note of vulnerability beneath all the bravado—a question she wasn't sure how to ask.
So I did what I do best:closed the distance, pressing my forehead to hers, anchoring us both.
For a heartbeat, the world went soft-focus, just the two of us and the aftershock of what we'd just done.
My phone rings.
The opening notes of "Flight of the Valkyries" mean only one thing—the twins.
"Ignore it," Velvet gasps against my mouth.
"They'll just keep?—"
It rings again.
